


Prototypes

by RedSummerRose



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Most likely to be jossed, NOT A TWINCEST FIC, Pre AoU, Some characters referenced and not overtly mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:44:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3790276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSummerRose/pseuds/RedSummerRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of pieces about how I would have liked to see The Scarlet Witch portrayed in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. All written at various times before Age of Ultron was released.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cause to Effect

It started with fire, and ended with ice.   
  
Wanda remembers, tries her best to recapture the sensation with the burgeoning powers dancing under her fingers.   
  
She can’t get too close to the truth of what happened, no. Not close enough to avoid raising  the suspicions of their captors. In some dim, muted part of her mind, she is aware of the world around her, hears the screams, the sounds of tormented and tormentor alike. It means little to her, when the drugs mute everything, softening edges of reality’s sharp corners. Lucidity comes and goes in the moments between silver pricks of the needle.

  
When Wanda’s awareness does sharpen, she calls out for her brother. Hears him thrash and rail against their capture in the cell next to her.  Hears his cries for freedom, for her.  Every sound is a knife in her chest, they should be together, and far away from there, away from the torture and the separation.   
  
And then the men come, with their needles full of forgetting.   
  
What she remembers most is that everything started with fire, and ended with ice.   
***  
  
That, was not the whole of it, of course. The twins had a good life once, the hazy memories of childhood gleaming halcyon and nostalgic. Wanda remembers learning to make garlands of wildflowers and smooth hands against her cheek. Pietro being chased by a hearty man with a big, booming laugh, always too fast, always a half step out of reach. The smell of the trees and smoke, the chill that settled in her bones at the start of the long winters. Sleeping under hand-patched quilts and blankets, the sound of four people breathing in easy, comfortable rhythms.    
  
They were happy, once upon a time. Mother and father and sister and brother.  Unconventional, as any Romani family could be, but happy all the same.   
  
It happened gradually.  Everything crumbling away from them in pieces, not enough to truly process what was happening until there was nothing left but ashes and grief.

  
First, it was the fever that claimed Marya Maximoff, the year the twins turned sixteen. Despite all her remedies, and the careful attention she paid to the health of her family, there was nothing the strong woman could do against a harsh winter and a wet spring. The illness claimed the lives of eight people within their camp, Marya the last of them.   
  
Then, it was the hunger, the year they turned twenty. The camp worked together to make ends meet, but supplies ran short, every so often. It was poor timing in this case, that forced Django Maximoff to steal, taking bread and apples and cheese from unsuspecting storeowners, to feed his hungry family. It kept them alive for a time, until retaliation struck, hard and fast.   
  
Pietro can recall the night it happened, from waking to screams and the acrid tang of smoke, to the crumpled, lifeless form of his father, a glimpse as Wanda pulled him away, fingers tight around his wrist, escaping the melee. It seemed as if those store owners weren’t so unsuspecting after all. Their home, their family, everything was reduced to nothing in one fell swoop.   
  
Afterward, past the adrenaline rush, past the harried escape, taking nothing but the simplest belongings with them, just the clothes on their backs, they mourn.   
  
A past smoldered behind them, charred remnants of a life they would never reclaim.   
  
She wouldn’t say it aloud, and Pietro wouldn’t confront her about it, but after that ominous night, the scent of smoke and the crackle of flames left a mark in Wanda’s mind, dancing at the edges of her nightmares, crackling low in the depths of her subconscious.  
  
The twins wander for two years, from town to town, taking odd jobs and surviving hand-to-mouth, relying on little but each other. Some days as harder than others, but they soldier on. There is comfort in little things. The scarlet jacket Wanda keeps close, her ever-present comfort, whether as a blanket or as armor, the worn leather still blazes with the same intensity that sparks in her eyes.  The worn and moth eaten cap Pietro pulls over his head, to hide the too quickly greying hair, to protect himself from the whispers and stares they already receive as Romani. They hide behind the distrust presented to them, using it to pass from one town to the other without much trouble.   
  
There has been enough of that to last a lifetime, let alone two.   
  
On easier days, when they are fed and watered, when it is just Pietro and Wanda, when they have not pushed each other’s buttons too fiercely, she comments playfully, with a wry twist of her lips, a sharp playful twinkle to her eyes, that their life would not feel normal without the bad luck that follows them so doggedly.

  
It is then that Pietro makes some snarky comment, and the conversations slides to other things. Some days are easy, others are harder.


	2. Bring the Truth to Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda has a change of heart, after seeing the Avengers' memories.

He asks Wanda to use her magic, and she obliges.

Ultron, for all his darker intentions, had taken them from HYDRA, given her and her brother a purpose, a reason to use their powers. And for all their so-called heroics, she had no reason to favor the Avengers.

Not when they had done so little for her and her family.

Magic was unpredictable, but in Wanda’s hands, it cut past the haze of humanity, molding the strongest of laws, of physics, or reality to her will. It had been a subject of endless fascination to the HYDRA scientists, and they had tested her on it, with crueler and crueler experiments.

Now, however, past the needles and tools of torture, far away from the underground bunker that had been their prison for two years, Wanda and Pietro used their skills.

Now, in the midst of a battle, magic poured over her hands, gleaming from her eyes, and time around her slowed to a standstill.

This time, she delved through thoughts, discarding the harried, panicked thoughts of battle, pushing aside the vein of anxiety that surged over the bystanders. Her quarry was something deeper.

Wanda dug through memories, flitting past pain and panic, the harried thoughts that accompanied the rush of battle.

Images slid passed her eyes, the flash of metal against a familiar faceplate, the bright blue eyes and dark hair of a beautiful woman, talking a monster down from its rage.

The sensation of pain danced over her hands, hearing a hum of a shield, the crackle of lightning, the kickback of a pistol, the sound of a bow being drawn.

_“You have heart.”_

_“I’m with you, pal. Till the end of the line.”_

_“I didn’t do it for him.”_

A flicker of her own emotion seeps through, watching the pain these people have suffered, more than she ever expected.

Wanda sees the distress she caused, pulling the monster to the surface, the heartbreak in throwing the Captain back to his past, the brittle shell covering pain that she had not expected in the Black Widow.

And she knows, this is not right. She has been given such gifts, the magic to twist the world to her thoughts, to her will. Wanda does not want to use them like this. To put others through the same ordeals she has endured.

The magic flickers and ebbs in her hands, the world snapping slowly back to attention.

Wanda isn’t sure of what she will do next, but at least one thing is clear. She has to find her brother.

They have a decision to make.


	3. Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda and Steve have a talk in an unlikely place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels of the Steve/Peggy variety ahead.

Steve knows this place. The scent of smoke and alcohol, the sound of soldiers singing, the amber-gold glow of the lamps scattered about the bar. War is far off here, despite being buried deep below the streets of London.

The Commandos are singing loudly, off in a corner, Dum-Dum belching mid note. Bucky drinking at the bar, a shadowed smirk on his face, It’s the closest to whole Steve’s seen him in a long, long time.

And then there is Peggy, stunning in her red dress, dark eyes strong and beautiful, undimmed by fading memories or age. Steve finds he misses her more than he thought physically possible

It is not where he should be. For the first time in ages, since waking from the ice, since before Bucky fell from the train, Captain America feels out of place in his own time. It is not how he feels in the present, there is a persistent feeling that he should be doing something else.

_“Captain. I am sorry.”_

There is a murmur, something gentle close by, and Steve turns. While the bar around him is hazy and sepia toned, the Scarlet Witch is vibrant, a slash of red where Peggy is not. 

“I am so, so, sorry.” She shakes her head, and the room stills, as if someone’s frozen the chatter and movement of patrons around them.

Wanda twists a necklace chain around her fingers, not making eye contact.

Steve is confused, “Wanda, this is–”

“Another life. Or, another part of your life, to be exact, Ultron, he–,” She breaks off, shaking her head. “You don’t deserve this, this isn’t what I– what my powers are for. I came to help. If you want it, of course.”

Her implication is clear. He could stay here, in a memory, a pleasant memory. Where Bucky is not the Winter Soldier, and Peggy’s life work, SHIELD is not a shambles, taken over by HYDRA.

As if noticing it for the first time, the familiar weight of his shield settles on Steve’s arm, and the world ripples between hazy memory and stark reality. 

A battle rages around them, robots and Avengers warring for control.

“Miss Maximoff? I’m ready when you are” Steve smiles, just faintly. Wanda returns it, the palest miasma of red encircling her hands. She brushes a palm over his shoulder, and the world snaps back into action.


	4. Invitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A post battle tradition extended to the Maximoffs.

It is after the battle, that Steve asks. It’s not a tradition, per say, but it’s necessary. Between his and Bruce’s metabolisms, Thor’s general hunger, and the rest of the team’s state of physical and emotional exhaustion, shwarma has become a short hand. It’s how the Avengers regroup. Clint and Natasha are already waiting, Tony is off somewhere, dealing with the suit.

This battle has all but demanded it, beating Ultron was difficult, in ways far different to the Battle of Manhattan. They’ve all had to readjust, to working as a team, to fighting with each other and not against.

The two new teammates are both helpful and a challenge of their own. Wanda is powerful, kind and intuitive, but doubts her powers, and doesn’t have full control yet. Her brother Pietro is quick, to say the least, and confident in his undeniably impressive skills, but abrasive, and overly protective of Wanda.

They are leaning on each other in the aftermath, Wanda speaking softly, Pietro’s arm around her shoulder. They are banged up, a vibrant streak of blood cutting across Pietro’s forehead, a decent sized bruise and a slit in Wanda’s lip. She is talking to him, but keeps her eyes focused on the agents taking care of The Vision. She watches out for him, she has since he took one of Ultron’s blasts aimed for her.

When Steve approaches, Pietro tenses, just slightly, the line of his shoulders set, the angles of his jaw twitch in a perturbed manner Steve is beginning to equate with him.  Wanda notices, most likely from years of experiencing the same expression, and looks up.

“Captain.”

“Scarlet Witch, Quicksilver.” Steve nods briefly, trying to ignore the persistent feeling of hunger that has started up in his stomach. It’s not as bad as it used to be, but the serum doesn’t keep him from being hungry.

“Is there something else that needs our attention?” Pietro’s tone is bordering somewhere between respectful and brusque, as if he expects to be thrown back in a cell. After the treatment they received at the hands of Von Strucker, the suspicion is understandable.

“No, nothing pressing. The other Avengers and I, after a battle we usually get something to eat, if you’d like to join us?”

From behind him, Clint waves once, bow in hand, having miraculously, amazingly found an open schwarma place. It’s almost serendipitous how they happen on establishments willing to feed a team of tired, hungry superheros.

There is a moment of twin communication, a look passing from one to the other, before Wanda replies, most likely for both of them.

“We do like Mediterranean food.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to RP Wanda, and there was a shared headcanon between myself and the person who played Pietro that the twins were big fans of Mediterranean food. Hence the omage. XD


	5. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic can be used for a multitude of purposes. And so can the ability to bring back memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea was based solely off the idea from tumblr user magesmagesmages, that since Wanda has magic that was used to bring back old memories, that she could almost be like the Cosmic Cube for Bucky, since that was how he regained his memories in the comics.

Wanda had heard of him, in her time as a captive of HYDRA.   
  
The Winter Soldier, a story whispered between scientists and guards, as they brought her food and drugged her and her brother for two years straight. Always with a tone that fell somewhere in between reverent and terror. They talked about her in that same way, staying back when her powers had run rampant.    
  
The stories she heard, they did not match the man she sees now. The Winter Soldier was a ghost, only visible before the blood, before the terror that followed his assassinations. A murderous, mechanical arm of HYDRA, the perfect soldier for the orderly destruction that was the organization’s mission.   
  
The man before her, hunched in a seat in the Avengers Tower, looking as if jumping out the thirty story window was preferable to this, was not the man she had heard about. According to the Captain, it wasn’t.   
  
Pietro had objected, loudly, vehemently. Wanda wasn’t the least bit surprised by this, really. Her brother had a point, this was a risky idea. One wrong move, a stray spark of magic, and things could get dangerous, quickly.  That was her brother, always concerned. He had already been going grey before being subjected to Asgardian magic, much to her amusement.   
  
Now, however, he insisted on being there. Steve was there too, more for the man formerly known as the Winter Soldier than anything else.   
  
They had talked, after the man who Steve called Bucky had reappeared, without the ties to HYDRA, and most of the programming their scientists had placed in his head. If anyone could help, Steve reasoned, it was her. She had agreed, albeit, somewhat hesitantly.   
  
Wanda knew all too well the struggles of being controlled, having someone else pull the strings. Two years was nothing compared to what Bucky had gone through, but if she could help, she would.   
  
So, they sat, awkward silence almost palpable, between the careful manner of the Scarlet Witch, and the cautious, controlled danger of the Winter Soldier.   
  
“Steve says you can help.” It’s not a question, but not quite a demand either.    
  
“I think I can… But.. I won’t do this, if it’s not what you want. I won’t do a thing without your consent.”    
  
There is a pause there, as if he is making up his mind.   
  
“Yeah. I want what they did, I want it gone. If you think you can do it with whatever powers Steve says you’ve got, then I say do it.”   
  
The determination in Bucky’s eyes is admirable, and Wanda smiles, just barely.   
  
“Very well.” Gently, so gently, she reaches for his flesh and blood hand, fingers resting lightly in his palm. Chaos magic gleams in the space between them, Wanda pulls on strands of probability, reaching for the most unlikely of possibilities.   
  
“Remember who you are.“


End file.
